


I Found A Way Home

by OneshotPrincess



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angst, But not really you'll see, Don't copy to another site, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, In Inaba!!, Jock Akira, Love at First Sight, M/M, Nerd Ryuji, Slow Burn, basically ryuji and his mom move to inaba after kamoshitty breaks his leg, i mean i'll try but i get impatient too, or crush at least on Akira's end lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2019-10-12 08:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17464157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneshotPrincess/pseuds/OneshotPrincess
Summary: Akira’s breath catches, his heart lurches uncomfortably in his chest.Because there is nothing meek at all about the look Sakamoto’s giving him now. His eyebrows are furrowed, mouth set in a tight line and his eyes— there’s a fire in his eyes that was wholly absent during his lacklustre introduction. A fire that’s low and simmering, almost as if he’s daring Akira to challenge him.--After Kamoshida breaks his leg, Ryuji's mother makes the decision to move to the countryside to give her son a fresh start. For Ryuji, the plan is simple: keep his head down, his grades up and don't ever cause more trouble for his mother again. Now if only that one guy from the school's gymnastics team would learn to leave him alone...





	1. You Had Me From Hello

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much the lovechild of a lot of amazing people on the Pegoryu Discord server so I hope I do it justice! Special shoutout to to Alice, [Jube](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JUBE514) and kuma!
> 
> Also a big thanks to [lod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lod/pseuds/lod) who picked out all the absolutely awful typos in this mess <3
> 
>  
> 
> **Song for the Chapter: You Had Me From Hello by Kenny Chesney**

Akira wakes to the shrill sound of his alarm going off. There’s sunlight slowly filtering through the open window, birds chirping in the background.

He blinks blearily at the alarm clock on his desk and wonders, for a moment, what on earth possessed him to set the alarm this early before he remembers. The first day of the new school year. Right.

He groans and rolls back over, burying his face into his pillow.

He should probably be more excited. He _is_ excited. But…

It’s not like he hasn’t been seeing his friends all through break anyway. And he’d just gotten used to the routine of sleeping in late and attending club practice in the afternoon too. Then he’d have the rest of the day all to himself. Going to school early in the morning seems like a bit of a chore now.

But, Akira thinks, that’s probably how it is with most students.

Akira stretches until he hears his back pop. Then he finally gets up to go get dressed.

Downstairs, his mother has breakfast laid out on the table; eggs, toast, orange juice, the whole shebang for a new school year. Mom herself is sitting on the table, muttering distractedly at her laptop; probably someone’s manuscript is giving her extra trouble today.

Akira eats his food quickly, shoveling the toast down his throat, taking a single swig of orange juice. “I’m leaving,” he calls out, bending down. His mother kisses his cheek once, distracted, perfunctory— and then he’s out of the house.

* * *

Walking to school is, of course, another _big deal_ after a long break. Everyone wants to catch up.

Akira, for his part, is a little bemused, since most of these people have seen him around anyway— Inaba’s small enough for everyone to know absolutely everyone and three whole generations of their ancestors too. Nevertheless, he obliges everyone with the standard ‘ _how’s it going_ ’ and ‘ _long time no see_.’

All of the (few) schools in Inaba are clustered around the same area so the students usually take the same road. He doesn’t really see any signs of the one person he really is looking forward to seeing, however. Typical. Akira wouldn’t be surprised if she’d forgotten all about school in the first place.

“Akira!”

Arms slam into him suddenly, and Akira stumbles forward but catches himself before his face can hit the pavement.

“Oh shoot,” comes the familiar voice from behind him. “Sorry about that!”

Speak of the devil, he thinks wryly, and she shall appear in all her orange-and-green glory. “I’m fine,” he says. “You just surprised me, that’s all.”

Sakura Futaba narrows her eyes at him before shrugging in acceptance, apparently deciding that she doesn’t care enough to dispute that.

“Right, well then.” Her arm hovers near his, as though she wants to link them together, but then she drops it. Akira doesn’t point it out. “I have news!” she declares instead, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her green aviator jacket. “There’s gonna be a new transfer student at Yasogami. Your class.”

Akira raises an eyebrow. “And you know this how?”

"Through the regular channels!” Futaba flaps a hand at him. “The rumour mill! I don’t always go snooping, you know. I was just surprised you never mentioned it before. I thought you’d get a welcoming party ready, Mr. Class Rep.”

Akira rolls his eyes. “Not the rep this year,” he points out and ignores her sing-song ‘not yet.’ “Is it just me, or is Inaba getting a lot of transfer students nowadays?”

Last year, it’d been Futaba who’d transferred into the third year of middle school. Akira had been a first year at Yasogami then, and the only reason he’d met Futaba at all was because he’d heard her while coming home from gymnastics practice one day, sobbing her heart out on the gazebo near the riverbank.

Uneasy but unwilling to leave a little girl alone while it was getting dark out, Akira had awkwardly offered her his last Tap Soda. He’d stood by her until she’d calmed down enough to call her mother to come pick her up.

That night when he’d logged onto his Trinity Soul account, there’d been a ton of rare gifts in his inventory and a friend request from a player named ‘Alibaba.’

The rest, as they say, was history.

Akira’s never really asked Futaba about that day. He’s since realized that Futaba struggles sometimes, with things like making friends or even _talking_ when she’s not behind a computer screen. It’s why he’s glad that he’s managed to get close to her. Futaba’s pretty amazing after all, and sometimes, when she’s feeling kind, she’ll let him have the best loot.

“Maybe. I don’t envy the guy is all I can say,” Futaba mutters under her breath and, at Akira’s shrewd gaze, quickly tacks on, “Deliveries take ages to get here! In Tokyo, you’d never have to wait more than a week.”

“Right.” Akira _has_ asked her why she moved from Tokyo — the heart of Japan — to Inaba of all places. He’s asked more than once in fact because Futaba’s answers...well, Akira doesn’t really buy them.

The first time she’d looked at him furtively, leaned in and whispered, “The elusive Teddie. Japan’s most famous cryptid. I’m here to hunt him down.”

Which was, okay, a little fair. Akira doesn’t think Teddie’s Japan’s most _famous_ cryptid but he’s certainly the most _accessible_ given the fact that he actually, you know, _exists_. And in all honesty, Futaba would be the type to move house and home in search of a cryptid.

Still, Akira had chosen to take that first response as a joke and asked again.

“We’re in hiding. My dad’s ex-yakuza, you know.”

And so it went on. The very last reason she’d given his was this: “Witness protection program. I hacked into some shady, shady things and mom got involved and it was a whole mess so we all got sent to nowhereland by the government.”

Disturbingly enough, Akira has met Wakaba and Sojiro Sakura and he thinks that this is a pretty likely scenario. Maybe not Sojiro-san. But Wakaba-san, definitely.

“Inaba’s a pretty chill place,” Akira offers with a smile, putting his hand on Futaba’s head. “I’m sure they’ll fit right in soon enough.”

A smile tugs at Futaba’s lips in response.

“Hey, there’s Kana-chan!” she says abruptly, looking at a girl up ahead. Futaba waves exuberantly and Kana, Futaba’s one other friend as far as Akira knows, waves back. Between the two of them, Kana always makes Futaba look like the extroverted one.

“I gotta go hash out our battle plan for the first day of high school together. Can’t let the enemy get the jump on us. Catch you later, Akira!” she says as she bounds up to meet her friend.

“Yeah, catch you later,” Akira replies, raising a hand to wave to her— but Futaba’s already moved on.

Akira drops his hand.

* * *

 Walking into class, Akira feels a flash of relief when he sees that this year, he has Yuuta in his homeroom.

Minami Yuuta's in the gymnastics club with him and if Akira’s already in the running for being club captain for his third year, Yuuta’s the same with being vice-captain. Akira doesn’t approach him though, just waves hello and takes a window seat near the middle of the class. He takes out his pencil case and a notebook to mark his territory.

All around him is the buzz of a classroom coming to life slowly, greetings and exclamations. Occasionally, words about the transfer student reach him, theories about what they could be like. Akira puts his head down on the desk and the familiar bustle of school must have lulled  him into a doze because the next thing he knows, someone’s poking him light in the back and he’s jerking awake—

Akira shoots an annoyed glance at Yuuta behind him, who makes a pointing motion towards the front of the class.

“...and this is Sakamoto Ryuji. He’s from Tokyo. He’ll be joining us this year so I expect you all to make him feel welcome.”

When the words register, Akira blinks the sleep away from his eyes and looks up at the exchange student he’s been hearing so much about.

Black hair, he notes, a little unruly but he’s obviously made an effort to tame the spikes. Akira can sympathize. There are square-framed glasses perched on his nose and his uniform’s unadorned, practically pristine. His arms are by his side, posture loose and slack—

No. On a closer look, Akira realizes that his posture’s tight. Restrained. Akira can see the line of tension in the new student’s shoulders. Akira tilts his head curiously.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, voice soft, almost _demure_ , then bows. “Please take care of me.”

“So formal,” Akira hears someone whisper.

The class’s attention, so focused when it came to the guessing game of the exchange student, starts shifting when faced with the real deal. Soft-spoken, well-dressed, mild-mannered— all good qualities, but not _interesting_ qualities. If Akira knows these people as well as he thinks he does, the murmurs of interest are going to die off soon enough.

But Akira’s interest, on the other hand, sharpens.

Something about the new student is just rubbing him a little wrong. It’s his posture, he supposes. The weird tension.

But then again, new school, new town. Who _wouldn’t_ be tense?

Akira taps his pen thoughtfully. When the new student —Sakamoto— doesn’t make any other efforts to introduce himself, Mrs. Nakayama directs him to his seat, at the end of Akira’s aisle.

The class voices pick up, life resumes. Mrs. Nakayama starts digging around for the class register and Sakamoto makes his way down Akira’s aisle, who sits up a little straighter in response.

Sakamoto shuffles forward, walking awkwardly in the narrow space between the desks. Just as he passes by Akira, the edge of his bag catches on Akira’s pencil case and sends it tumbling to the floor.

“Hey, watch it!” The protest falls from his lips without thought, subconscious and maybe a little rude — but that pencil case is a limited edition Featherman collectible that Futaba got him, sue him for being a little protective — and Sakamoto’s eyes flash to his.

Akira’s breath catches, his heart lurches uncomfortably in his chest.

Because there is _nothing_ demure at all about the look Sakamoto’s giving him now. His eyebrows are furrowed, mouth set in a tight line and his eyes— there’s a fire in his eyes that was wholly absent during his lacklustre introduction. A fire that’s low and simmering, almost as if he’s _daring_ Akira to challenge him.

Akira swallows, throat suddenly dry. “Ummm,” he says.

Just like that, the burning gaze slides off him. Sakamoto bends down to pick up the pencil case.

“Sorry,” he mutters and this time, despite Sakamoto’s best efforts at keeping it soft, Akira can hear the gruff edge behind it. He swallows again.

Sakamoto places the case on Akira’s desk and moves forward. He doesn’t meet Akira’s gaze again.

Once Sakamoto’s safe in his seat at the back of the class, Akira drops his face to his hands, thinking— _what the actual fuck?_  

And then he realizes that his face is _burning_ against the clamminess of his hands.

_Double fuck._

* * *

 Akira spends the rest of the class weird and jittery and nervous for no good reason. No one else seems to have noticed that... _Thing_ with Sakamoto, which makes Akira realize that it was most likely just 100% in his head.

By the time break rolls around, Akira’s bouncing his leg, resisting the urge to glance at Sakamoto for the nth time.

When the lunch bell finally rings, Yuuta taps on Akira’s shoulder. A few of his other teammates are making their way over to them too, Osa and Nakamura among them. They’ll probably head over to the gym for lunch, the same as they did last year, and watch some of the basketball players shoot hoops. With a student body as small as theirs, there tends to be a lot of overlap between sports teams.

Akira moves to stand up, then pauses. Hesitates. Glances back to look at Sakamoto. He’s doing exactly what he’s been doing the whole class: hiding his face behind a textbook.

 _Don’t hide_ , Akira thinks almost petulantly. Then he has to shake his head at how absolutely _absurd_ that sounds.

“Do you think we should ask Sakamoto to join us?” he asks quietly. “He looks lonely.”

Yuuta looks caught off-guard. He peers over his shoulder. “Looks to me like he wants to be left alone,” Yuuta mutters dubiously.

“New school,” Akira insists. “He’s probably just nervous.”

Yuuta peers over to Akira now, giving him a quizzical look before shrugging. “Not sure if he’ll fit in at the gym, but sure. Why not?” He stays seated though, the implication being that Akira has to be the one to make the first move.

Akira gets up. He tells himself that his heart absolutely isn’t jammed into his throat but he clears it for good measure anyway. He doesn’t want to get too close to Sakamoto though— for some reason, the back corner of the class feels weirdly _intimate_.

“Sakamoto-san,” he calls out loudly instead. Behind him, he can feel his teammates crowd around, curious and eager, and Akira tries very, very hard not to feel boxed in. Maybe going over to the corner would have been better after all.

Sakamoto’s eyes squint up over the edge of the textbook.For a second, Akira thinks he sees a flash of _something_ —annoyance, maybe, or anger— before the gaze slides off again, the glare of his glasses obscuring his eyes.

“Would you like to join us for lunch?” he rallies, jutting a thumb behind him.

Sakamoto’s eyes widen, glancing from Akira to Yuuta to the teammates behind him. He seems to hunch down even more, drawing into himself. Akira waits for an answer, anticipation building through his veins.

Sakamoto slams his book shut, shoving it into his bag at lightning speed.

“S-sorry,” he says. He stumbles forward, banging into a stray desk as he goes. “Shi— sorry!” he calls out again. “But I just— I gotta— uhh, go. I gotta go.”

And he’s out the back door of the class in a flash, running as though the devil himself is at his heels. There’s a beat of silence while the rest of them, the rest of the whole class actually, process Sakamoto’s hasty retreat.

“...Okay, _that_ was weird,” Nakamura says from behind him.

“Guess he’s shy after all,” Osa adds.

Yuuta gives Akira an ‘ _I told you so_ ’ look. “See? Told you he wants to be left alone.”

Akira bites his lip, fights down the disappointment welling up inside him. “Yeah,” he says. “Guess so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a few things right off the bat!  
> 1) From a Doylist perspective, the reason Futaba is in Inaba in this fic is because a) I love her and b) Akira needed some people to talk to and without her it'd be 90% OCs. I'm not too fond of too many OCs in a fic.
> 
> From a Watsonian perspective, well, personally I like the witness protection program idea the best! :P
> 
> 2) Yuuta Minami is the lil kid at the daycare in Persona 4! He's Eri Minami's stepson. I have no idea how old he's really supposed to be but for the purposes of this story he is Old Enough :D And Nakamura and Osa's last names are taken from Aika Nakamura, the girl who delivers your beef bowls in anime and Reiko Osa, the woman who owns Croco Fur in Golden...do u see...how far i am reaching...
> 
> 3) Title may be subject to change, not 100% satisfied with this one :(
> 
> Anyway please do leave kudos/comments if you like it and feel free to hmu on @oneshotprincess on tumblr!


	2. Lionhearted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm super late with my updates and I'm terribly sorry! Hope some of you are still around to read this! As always, shout-out to [lod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lod/pseuds/lod) for reading this through for me <3
> 
> **Song for the Chapter: Lionhearted by Billie Marten**

If there’s one thing Ryuji admires about his mother, it has to be her _resilience._ Mom’s never given up, not once. Not when she got kicked out of her house as a teen for getting pregnant. Not when his asshole dad was still living in their apartment, taking out his frustrations on the two of them every night. Not even when he left with all their money. Mom picked herself up, dusted herself off. She managed to get a nursing degree, managed to pay off her lousy husband’s debts, managed to get Ryuji into a prestigious high school.

Then he went and fucked it all up. 

He shouldn’t have done it. He _shouldn’t_ have. If he’d just kissed Kamoshida’s ass like the rest of the track team, if he could have controlled his temper...all of Mom’s hard work wouldn’t have been for nothing. 

But even now, even after the expulsion and the hospital bills and the move, she’s _still_ hopeful. She chattered non-stop—a nervous habit, Ryuji knows—all through the train ride here. She fills the silences by herself while they fix up the little flat they got above the sake store, glancing at Ryuji from the corners of her eyes, talking about how clean the air is, how good the countryside is, how Ryuji’ll fit right in. 

(Yeah, right.)

Ryuji knows he should answer, say something, _anything_ , to keep her from worrying. But he can’t. Words don’t come. Ryuji’s never been good at faking anything and he knows without a shred of doubt that he doesn’t believe his mother’s words. 

But she’s so _hopeful_. And he wants her to be happy, so, so badly. He wants her to never have to worry again, _ever,_ at least not because of her shitty son. And if nothing else, there’s one thing he can do for her. He can keep his head down here, in Inaba. He can be _good._ He’s never been anything but trouble for her, from the moment she got pregnant with him.  This time, he’s determined not to be. 

The plan’s simple: keep his head down, try his damndest to get good grades, and _don’t cause trouble for her._

And then that black-haired jerk asks him to lunch.

* * *

Ryuji’s panting in the roof-access stairwell, trying to steady his breathing, when his brain finally catches up with him. He groans and squats down, head in his hands.

_Why did he do that? Why the fuck did he do that?_

That black-haired guy, flanked by his posse on either side—he knows their type. Even before he’d... _fought_ Kamoshida, there’d been a lot of hazing in Shujin’s sports teams. Some cocky jackass who thinks he’s better shit than everyone else and his gaggle of goons, taking it out on the newer kids, the scrawnier kids. He remembers how much Mishima suffered, no matter how good he was at volleyball.   

So yeah, Ryuji knew what that guy was looking for when he asked Ryuji to lunch. Still, he shouldn’t have run away. He should have just taken it and gone home. He knows from experience that it’ll only get worse from here. 

He grimaces and rubs at his knee. The squatting position isn’t doing him any favors, so he slowly gets up. Mom packed him lunch, but he doesn’t feel like eating; everything’s been tasting like dust in his mouth nowadays.

He doesn’t want to waste his mum’s cooking, though, so he takes the food out, glancing up at the closed door to the rooftop as he does. In Shujin the rooftop had been off-limits and he’s not sure if it’s the same in Yasogami but…well. Maybe he’ll be left alone up there.

“Here goes nothing,” he murmurs, lunchbox in hand, and shoves the doors open. 

* * *

Returning to class earns him a few stares, but Ryuji’s not a stranger to attention. He keeps his head down, hopes no one notices the hot flush on his face, and slides back into his seat.

If he feels a certain stare in particular, he ignores that too. If that asshole wants to start a fight—

...Well, Ryuji’ll just have to take it, but that’ll probably be after school. First, he has to face classes. He’s never been a good student, not like his mother, probably something else he got from his dad along with his temper— 

Fuck it, he’s gotta try. For his mom’s sake if nothing else. He’s gotta catch a break at some point, right? If he tries hard enough?

Ryuji flips his books open as the teacher calls attention to class and ducks down, pushing the fake glasses up his nose. 

The material’s not difficult; surprisingly, Shujin’s teachers were _way_ bigger hardasses. Nevertheless, English is still a huge pain in the ass. 

He’s poring over the exercises so intently that it isn’t until everyone starts filing out of the classroom that Ryuji remembers; the last class of the day is gym. 

He freezes in his seat, feeling almost sick. He could skip out, probably. The school’s got his health records. They’d probably excuse him on account of that, right?

Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe the principal would sneer and tell him _it’s mandatory, Sakamoto-san, nothing to do about it, don’t make trouble now or else_ — 

Ryuji swallows, clenches his fists. Deep breaths, he reminds himself. Deep breaths.

Don’t slam the chair, don’t stomp. Pack your bag calmly.

He does it as slowly as he can until most of the class has emptied, before moving towards the door. With a jolt, he realizes that the frizzy-haired jock’s still there, holding the door open for him. 

Jesus, doesn’t he have anything better to do?

Ryuji tenses up, expects a shoulder check or a shove or _something_. But he passes through the doorway without incident. 

His eyes meet the others’ briefly before flicking back. “Thanks,” he says, against his better judgement.

The jock just nods back. 

* * *

Yasogami’s gym is pitiful compared to Shujin’s, and somehow, the obvious differences relax Ryuji. He _does_ spy a huge-ass soccer field you wouldn’t find anywhere in Tokyo, though. He figures that must be where the school budget is going.

The sight of the soccer field makes something weird ache in his chest. It’s big, full of green, green grass. You can see the whole countryside sprawling behind it. Not even shitty Shujin, with its expensive tuition fees, had this kind of space.

Everything in Inaba feels so crisp and clean and quiet compared to Tokyo’s metropolitan mess. The weirdest thing is, Ryuji still somehow misses Tokyo. He misses the noise, the lights, the crowds. He shouldn’t, there’s nothing appealing about that shit. Objectively, Inaba’s way better. But he _does_.

Ryuji’s so busy ruminating that he almost misses the instructions the PE teacher gives. Dodgeball. Well, that’s...not too bad. He can do this.

The teacher divides up the teams, and then they’re off at separate ends of the court, just like that. His throat feels dry, stomach twisting in knots and hands sweating. It’s stupid. He feels _so_ stupid; it’s a goddamn gym, not a dungeon. Yasogami, not Shujin. He shouldn’t be feeling like this.

His eyes skim across the opposing team and with a jolt, he realizes that frizzy hair is there. The guy holds his gaze for a beat too long, face unreadable, and apprehension curls hot and heavy inside him.

Asshole. What’d Ryuji ever do to him? What’s he ever done to anyone?

Fuck. This. 

Just like before, Ryuji barely hears the coach blow the whistle, but this time it’s a _different_ kind of distraction. His hand lets go off the back wall and steps forward and then the game is _on._

The world dulls to a rush as classmates around him start screaming and laughing, dodging this way and that. It’s barely a structured sport, more like a free-for-all, but that suits him just fine. His body’s on autopilot. It’s almost...fun, maybe? Exhilarating? He’s not sure. It sure is making him feel _something_ . He hasn’t moved like this since, well... _before._

Across the room he watches frizzy hair jump up to avoid getting hit. A little bit like volleyball, he thinks as he sees the graceful landing. A little bit like volleyball, maybe—and the thought burns away the fog that’s been clouding his head.

Ryuji hones in on the ball approaching their side of the court, moves forward without thinking and jumps— 

_SMACK!_    

The white noise dies down, all movement stopping as the game comes to a halt.

And in the silent gym, Ryuji sees frizzy hair lying on the ground with a hand on his face.

Oh, _fuck_ no.

* * *

He knows it’s bad because frizzy-head—Kurusu, the guy’s name is Kurusu, there’s a crowd gathered around him in seconds and the name is on all of their lips—doesn’t immediately get up. The hand on his cheek flops down and Ryuji feels cold, hard dread sink into his stomach.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The gym teacher starts taking off his jacket and Ryuji feels terrified, nauseated but strangely detached at the same time. Like he’s watching a movie on a screen.

“Give him space, now, give him some space,” the teacher chides, shooing the others away from the tight circle they’d formed around Kurusu. He rolls the jacket into a ball and places it under Kurusu’s head, then gently rolls him onto his side. For a minute or two, nothing happens. Ryuji watches, transfixed, as gazes flit from Kurusu to him. The mutters intensify but Ryuji can barely hear it over the thundering of his own heart.

Please, please wake up, he thinks. And Kurusu’s eyes flutter open.

“Hey, there,” The gym teacher says. His hand, Ryuji notices, keeps rubbing soothing circles on Kurusu’s back.

He...cares, Ryuji thinks, momentarily astounded. This guy actually _cares._

“You didn’t take too long to come around!” he continues cheerfully. “How are you feeling? Can’t be that bad, huh Kurusu?”

The guy grimaces gingerly. “Just...just fine, Mr. Kondo,” he rasps out, and a part of Ryuji— the part that isn’t flailing in panic that he just hit another student, _holy shit_ —winces in sympathy. Kurusu sounds like crap. “I just need a minute.”

“Oh, you need more than a minute. That was a nasty hit.” The gym teacher keeps talking like they’re discussing the weather. Ryuji kind of wishes he’d take it more seriously, but then again, cheerful’s miles better than what he had in Shujin.

_This teacher seems to care,_ he thinks again.

“We’ll wait for a bit,” Mr. Kondo continues, while Kurusu scrunches his eyes shut again. “Once you feel well enough, you can sit up and we’ll take you to the infirmary, okay?”

Kurusu nods weakly. It takes another few minutes until carefully, with the teacher’s help, he manages to sit up, hand pressed to the side of his head. Guilt flares up inside Ryuji. He did that. Him and his stupid temper. Kurusu was giving him a hard time, sure, but he hadn’t actually _done_ anything. He didn’t deserve to get smacked around like that. No one did.

“...anyone want to volunteer?”

“I will,” Ryuji says immediately. Just like that, all attention shifts to him. He flushes but squares his shoulders nonetheless. “This is my fault,” he insists, miserable and defeated but _determined._ “I’m so, so sorry—I swear I didn’t mean to, I just—just messed up. I’ll take him to the infirmary—”

“Alright, Sakamoto!” Mr. Kondo interrupts and Ryuji’s face gets even redder. Behind him, he swears he hears someone snickering. “These things happen, you know! As they say in English, no pain, no gain! I’m sure Kurusu won’t hold any grudges.”

A quick glance at Kurusu’s dazed eyes makes Ryuji think that the guy probably isn’t capable of holding _anything_ right now. Mr. Kondo guides Kurusu upright and then towards Ryuji with a hand on his arm. 

“Try and take him to the infirmary quickly,” he advises, then pauses. “But not too quickly,” he amends. “And do be more careful next time?”

Ryuji only nods, gaze on the ground, not trusting himself to speak. Despite his nerves, he quickly slots one arm around Kurusu’s waist and drags one of the other boy’s arms across his shoulders.The first day of school’s pretty much been a train wreck so far, but the worst thing of all is that this, at least, feels familiar. 

* * *

Holding each other up, trips to the infirmary...yeah, whether the injuries were his own or someone else’s, Ryuji knows _this_ routine by heart alright.

Yasogami is small enough that in spite of being a new student, it doesn’t take Ryuji long at all to find the nurse’s office. The nurse, a stern-looking woman with thick glasses, takes one look at them, Kurusu leaning on a red-faced and guilty Ryuji, and sighs.

“Dodgeball?” she asks, and her mouth sets in a disapproving line when Ryuji confirms it. She directs them to the back room where there’s a bed waiting.

“Every year,” she says, opening the fridge door and then slamming it shut with a bang. “There’s always one. Always dodgeball.” 

She tugs out Kurusu’s hand and slaps an ice pack down on it harshly. Ryuji flinches. “Ice it,” she orders, and Kurusu obediently puts the ice pack on his cheek. Next, she picks up a clipboard. “How’d it happen?” 

“Uh…well,” Kurusu starts and then is promptly interrupted by the nurse. 

“Trouble focusing,” she murmurs as she writes it down. “Slow reaction time.” Kurusu blinks, then looks over at Ryuji helplessly.  

“I hit him,” Ryuji admits uncomfortably. “I mean, the ball hit him! And I, y’know, hit the ball. I wasn’t aiming for him or nothing! Then he fell down—”

“Hit his head?” she asks.

“Uh…” he glances back at his companion, who seems to come to life for the first time. 

“Umm, I think so,” he says. “The back?” and touches it a little hesitantly.

“Hmm,” she grunts and man, if looks could kill, they’d both be dead already. Ryuji swallows, waiting for the moment her attention turns to him. 

“Any nausea? Balance problems?”

“No nausea...balance...a little bit, I guess.”

The nurse tuts and then pushes her glasses back. “I’m not liking what I’m hearing, Kurusu. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to call your mother,” she tells Kurusu. “Then I’ll come back to thoroughly to check if you have a concussion. And then once she gets here, she’ll be taking you to the hospital, where they’ll be able to _confirm_ whether you have a concussion or not.”

“And,” her gaze flits to Ryuji, who straightens up, heart in his throat, waiting for the reprimand to hit but it never comes. “I’ll be having a _word_ with Mr. Kondo. Honestly, every year! _Why_ they keep playing these dangerous games, I have no idea! Every time! _Every time!_ Mark my words…”

So saying, she bustles back off into the office.

“Umm…”

“Yeah,” Kurusu snorts, drawing Ryuji’s attention again. He flops back down onto the bed, ice pack still in hand. “She’s _always_ like that. Next she’ll ask for my MRI scans and call the hospital if they haven’t ordered any. And my mom’s going to _hate_ this…”

“Sorry,” Ryuji says, because he _is._ What a fuck up. Now he’s in the teachers’ and the nurse’s bad books, and he’s managed to do the one thing he was trying to avoid from the start: piss off the jocks. And, yeah, he feels sorry for Kurusu’s mom too.

“I’m really sorry,” he repeats miserably. It’s all he can do. That and hope Kurusu and his posse don’t take this personally. “I swear I’ll make it up to you, somehow. Anything you want—”

“Dude, relax,” Kurusu interrupts, bracing himself on one elbow. One of his eyes is covered by the hand holding the ice pack, the other peering at Ryuji. Kurusu has this weird, blank look to him. It looks _way_ too neutral but it still makes Ryuji feel like the guy’s analyzing him. It’s the same look he gave Ryuji when he dropped his pencil case.  “It’s fine. Like the nurse said, happens all the time. I’m...kinda woozy, I guess, but pretty sure this isn’t even the worst I’ve had. Yuuta used to drop me all the time during routines.” 

Then, tilting his head, he considers Ryuji. “You know...you’re pretty strong.”

Ryuji blinks, taken aback. He’d been trying to disperse how out of it Kurusu really _was_ since he didn’t sound half as bad anymore but there’s a weird flush rising on his cheeks. “Uh...I guess?” 

“Mmhmm,” Kurusu hums an agreement, sounding kind of dreamy. Dude must really be out of it. “That’s good...I mean, that’s, like, a good quality to have!”

“...Thanks?”

“What I’m trying to say,” Kurusu grimaces and shifts the ice pack so that it covers more of his face, “ is you should try joining a sports club. Pretty sure you wouldn’t drop me as much as Yuuta if you joined gymnastics, anyway.”

Ryuji freezes. Suddenly, even his leg seems to throb in protest. Join _Kurusu’s_ gymnastics club? Why, this guy could get him exactly where he wanted him, in Kurusu’s backyard, with his gang? Fuck that. No. He’s been through that shit once, no way in hell he’s doing it again.

“Right,” Ryuji rasps, panic constricting his throat. “Right, I should probably go now. Like, let Mr. Kondo you’re okay and shit—I mean stuff, I mean—Bye!”

It’s not a graceful exit, but Ryuji’s never exactly been a graceful guy, so _whatever._ He just needs to get _out._ So he turns on his heel and all but flies out the door, without bothering to spare a glance back at Kurusu.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving to another country and learning the language was much harder than I expected to be honest, it really cut into my writing time, and when I came home from Japan for vacation, friends and family pretty much ate up any free time I had. Still, since someone asked be about it, I'd like to clarify that I'm not going to abandon this fic, you guys can rest assured about that! Updates might be slow but I'm going to keep them coming!

**Author's Note:**

> So a few things right off the bat!  
> 1) From a Doylist perspective, the reason Futaba is in Inaba in this fic is because a) I love her and b) Akira needed some people to talk to and without her it'd be 90% OCs. I'm not too fond of too many OCs in a fic. 
> 
> From a Watsonian perspective, well, personally I like the witness protection program idea the best! :P
> 
> 2) Yuuta Minami is the lil kid at the daycare in Persona 4! He's Eri Minami's stepson. I have no idea how old he's really supposed to be but for the purposes of this story he is Old Enough :D And Nakamura and Osa's last names are taken from Aika Nakamura, the girl who delivers your beef bowls in anime and Reiko Osa, the woman who owns Croco Fur in Golden...do u see...how far i am reaching...
> 
> 3) Title may be subject to change, not 100% satisfied with this one :(
> 
> Anyway please do leave kudos/comments if you like it and feel free to hmu on @oneshotprincess on tumblr!


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